“Anything?” Quinn asked.
The lab director tapped his bag. “I’m taking custody of the evidence. The interior was wiped clean.”
“No fingerprints?”
“Not Nick’s, not anyone’s, on the steering wheel, dash, or doors. Harris said that he had a witness, a trucker, who called in the abandoned vehicle.”
“Witness?” Quinn fumed. Harris was keeping valuable information from him. Quinn was ready to take over jurisdiction and nail the jerk for obstruction of justice if it continued.
“The witness didn’t see anyone in or around the truck. He drove down this road at one thirty this afternoon, turned south on 191 to eat and gas up at a popular truck stop about three miles down. He logged it all in his book. He left the restaurant at three and the sheriff’s truck was here. He almost hit it coming around the bend. Called it right in.”
“Gives us a time line. Good.” Quinn’s mind grappled with the information. “Someone dumped Nick’s truck. Why? Because he wanted it to be found. There’s a million places it could have been left where no one would find it for days, or longer. He did it to divert attention,” Quinn answered his own question.
“Sounds right to me,” Fields said. “One more thing. Though the car was wiped down, I collected a sample of dirt in the grooves of the brake pedal. At first glance, it looks like the same dark red clay we found in the Douglas murder. It’s a very small sample, less than a gram. I can’t say for sure it’s identical until I run tests, but I think for caution’s sake you should assume it’s from the same source.”
“Meaning, the Butcher has Nick.”
Olivia and Dr. Fields left directly from the scene to return to Helena. Quinn and Miranda headed back to the Sheriff’s Department and upon their arrival, Deputy Booker called them over.
“We have four possibles,” he said, his pale eyes darting back and forth with excitement. “I can’t believe out of all those files, we could narrow it down so fast.”
“Follow the evidence,” Quinn said. “Every detail helps.” He took the list from Booker, mindful that Miranda was looking over his shoulder.
“The first guy,” Booker said, “is still on campus. Mitch Groggins. He’s a cook at the cafeteria. Been there for seventeen years. Forty years old. His mother lives in Green River, Utah.”
Quinn nodded, his entire body humming with anticipation. This was it. The killer was on this list. He felt it.
“Have you talked to his mother? Found out if he visited recently?”
Booker shook his head. “We’ve been busy narrowing down the list, we haven’t had time, I’m sorry-”
Quinn put up his hand. “You did the right thing.” He made a note in his pad.
“The next guy graduated the year after Penny Thompson went missing. He only had one class with her, an advanced biology class, and he didn’t live on campus. David Larsen. He left town after he graduated and got his master’s in wildlife biology at the University of Denver. I checked their records and he’s on staff there.”
Denver-that was in the middle of Colorado. Quinn consulted the map Professor Austin had outlined. Denver was out of the region. Still, a wildlife biologist would probably work outdoors. It warranted follow-up to find out if the guy worked in the field. “How old is he?” Quinn asked as he flipped to the fact sheet in the file Booker had put together.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Okay. Next?”
“Bryce Younger. Thirty-five. Freshman at the time of Penny’s disappearance. He was in the same dorm as her-North Hedges. MSU has co-ed dorms, you know, guys on one floor, girls on another.”
“I know,” Quinn said.
“So, he was on the floor directly beneath hers. They knew each other, had one class together. And get this- he’s from St. George, Utah. He went back there when he graduated and is in construction. Never married, no kids.”
Construction-probably physically fit, capable of subduing a woman.
“Any reason to believe he’s come up to Montana recently?”
“His construction company is pretty big, they have projects all over the western U.S.-including building the new science wing at Missoula.”
The University of Montana in Missoula was about two hours northwest of Bozeman.
“The last guy is forty-five, a little older than the others. Brad Palmer. He was a teaching assistant in one of Penny’s classes and left shortly after her disappearance. They’d been involved. He’s this big ex-football type. Apparently, he had a football scholarship and played at Stanford, then busted out his knee. Graduated, coached high school, came up here to get a degree in mechanical engineering. He was interviewed several times about her disappearance, according to the records. Nothing stuck.
“But get this,” Booker added. “He lives in Grand Junction, Colorado.”
Quinn looked at his map. There it was, Grand Junction. Right over the line on Professor Austin’s map.
Miranda listened to Quinn take charge. She had to admit, he did it well.
She stared at the photographs of the four men-any one of them could be the Butcher. Goosebumps rose on her skin.
She sat in the corner and absorbed Quinn’s orders more than listened. He’d called the two agents expected this evening and directed them to Colorado. First to Grand Junction to check on Penny’s ex-boyfriend, then to Denver to investigate the wildlife biologist.
He called the St. George Police Department, filled them in on the investigation, and asked them to check on Bryce Younger. He sent Booker and Zachary to Missoula to investigate the construction company owner and see if Younger had been around in the last three weeks. He was on the phone, dispatching deputies, and massaging Sam Harris’s ego all at once.
But Miranda caught all of this from the periphery. She focused on the University photographs of the four men. In her mind, she imagined each of them shooting Sharon in the back. She couldn’t rid her mind of the image of each of them tying her down, raping her. Then feeding her bread and water like she was a wounded bird.
She didn’t want to go back, but she was already there. She tried to steel herself for the pain, but it came crashing through, her barriers shattered.
Deep down, she wanted to go home and let Quinn do his job. What did she think she could do here? She worked for the Sheriff’s Department, but she wasn’t a cop. She searched for people. Sometimes, she found them. But she’d never forget all the women she’d never found, or the ones she’d discovered too late.
But if she hid under her warm comforter, the Butcher would still be out there. Ashley van Auden would still be strapped to the ground, cold and in pain, certain she was going to die and that no one cared, no one would save her. Nick would still be missing. Was he dead?
But how could he be alive? Why would the Butcher keep him alive? He wouldn’t. He’d kill him and dump his body. They might not find him until after they caught the Butcher.
She’d always wondered whether she’d be able to face the man who attacked her. After all these years, the nightmares, and the sacrifices, perhaps at last she was on the verge of finding out.
“Let’s go,” Quinn said to Miranda.
She looked up. She hadn’t noticed the room had cleared out, or that Quinn was standing in front of her.
“Where?”
“The University. To talk to Mitch Groggins.” He glanced at his watch. “I just talked to the cafeteria supervisor. He’s there until nine in the evening. We should be able to catch him.”
“Me?” She blinked. He didn’t actually mean for her to go with him? To be only feet from the man who might be the Butcher?
Quinn stared at her. His face was blank, but his eyes questioned. “Weren’t you paying attention for the last ten minutes?”
“I guess-my mind wandered. I don’t know how good I’d be to you.”
She wanted to go, desperately wanted to face each of the four men and have them speak. Close her eyes and listen to the cadence of his voice. She would know which man was the Butcher because she’d heard his voice in her nightmares.
